


Day 34

by extryn



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Crack, Crack Pairing, Episode Related, Inanimate Object Porn, Masturbation, Object Insertion, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, The Power Of Three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:49:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extryn/pseuds/extryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the spectrum of matter which the cube could belong to, there were really only two options: object, or lifeform, and the one would hardly object while the other often could respond favourably to sex. (The Doctor is bored.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 34

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have absolutely no shame, and after watching the episode this was just too tempting not to write it. Yes. There is explicit sex with a cube in all its sharp-cornered glory. I don't blame you if this is not your cup of tea and in fact highly encourage you to hit the back button if this is the case.

Brian's log, not-very-surprisingly, turned up nothing, except a peculiar anecdote concerning a coin laundry. The Doctor was very nearly at the limit of his considerable intellect, and well past the limit of his patience; surely there was some sort of award that could be bestowed upon him, or perhaps a title. Not, of course, that he was bored of his title, but one could never have enough doctorates to justify it. (Patience would neatly fit in between Doctor of Arboriculture and Taxation.)

But the cube remained obstinately unremarkable in every possible way, down to the infuriatingly generic shade of black that was not onyx nor slate nor charcoal. The Doctor gazed at it, then a bit harder; he'd been known to pierce things with his gaze, and perhaps this might be more successful than the skewer. Rory's drill he was still painting fences to replace.

Funny thing, money, very useful with which to acquire new drills and edible ball bearings, and sometimes fish fingers (though these more often could be located in a freezer), but there was this alarming tendency to cause an awful lot of dead people on most occasions the Doctor had been familiar with it. Even more alarming was the steadily growing _desire_ for death that seemed to go along with any situations where he was forced to acquire it by...pedestrian methods. Selling the cubes hadn't worked and it might have said something that the idea hadn't been his last resort.

The Doctor racked his brains for any other possible avenues of investigation that might have eluded him yesterday, and the day before, and he wasted a good five minutes trying to say the exact amount of yesterdays that he'd been trying to decipher this thing for.

It was almost time to give up. The cubes had their own cartoon, by now. He wasn't surprised; it wasn't a far leap to imagine the cube glaring, giggling, grinning smugly just under that smooth matte surface.

Right. Imagining faces on cubes was hardly productive. The Doctor was hardly prepared to admit defeat and frankly refused to believe that he could exhaust every idea in a matter of months. It was time to think outside the box (was it a box? English was something of a rubbish language for being specific about dimensions).

His metaphorical box, he supposed, was the sum of his knowledge and experiences. A big box by anyone's standards, but overly defined by the perspective of somebody who formed most of said experiences while running for their life from them.

The Doctor tried to think of somebody who was his polar opposite. This didn't work, because a six year old Inuit was perhaps not the ideal cube detective, and neither was a teen pop star.

The two ideas seemed to come at once; one, that he should ask Jack, who was familiar with alien technology and seemed to get around a frightening amount of places, and two, that he needn't ask Jack at all, because there was the one idea he hadn't tested yet.

On the spectrum of matter which the cube could belong to, there were really only two options: object, or lifeform, and the one would hardly object while the other often could respond favourably to sex.

The Doctor ran the cube around in his fingers a few times, testing its weight, the smoothness of its finish. He sniffed it, to find that it smelt mostly of Amy's air freshener, which was an attractive smell regardless.

Tentatively, he brought a side to his lips, barely brushing the cube and marvelling at the softness of its surface, velvet-like from whatever had been used to matte it. With a bit more courage, he pressed his lips against the cube more firmly, with intention this time and varying the pressure. The cube didn't respond, not to his tongue peeking out to wet a patch on its side, not when it felt along the side and the corner.

Surprisingly, it tasted good; mineral, a hint of metal, and the Doctor let his mouth part to reach more of it, sucking as much of it as he could into his mouth and letting his tongue play around the corner. His lips moist, he let them drag across the cube, the skin now even more sensitive to the minutiae of the finish and the grain of the material it had been made from, like fire against his nerves. As his lips spread to give his tongue access, his teeth grazed across an edge, and he slid the cube back down to run his teeth over it again, the sound reverberating into his skull. He bit softly at it, his teeth finding purchase at its corner and scraping closer together until they teased the very tip of it, nibbling and sucking and slipping off the point to catch it again.

The cube remained stoically unresponsive and he was forced to consider the alternative option; that it was, indeed, some kind of sex toy. And it was his duty as protector of the Earth to be sure of this, before any unsuspecting humans got themselves into trouble (Jack, again, came to mind).

As he unsnapped his suspenders and opened his trousers, some part of him acknowledged he must be really, really bored.

He lounged more comfortably on the sofa, treating himself to long, gentle slides of his fingers down his length, feeling the blood surge downwards to heat the flesh in his hands. He set the cube down for a moment to rummage under the cushions where a half-empty tube of lubricant had made its home for some weeks now, forgotten by Amy and Rory. Squeezing out a good handful, he carefully slathered the cube, the gel warming under the movement of his fingers massaging it onto its surface. What was left on his fingers, he slicked himself with--there, now _that_ felt good, his hand sliding and squeezing smoothly until his erection grew hard enough that his forefinger and thumb no longer met around it.

He stilled his hand and eyed the cube sternly. 'Now, I'm going to have sexual intercourse with you. If you have any objections, you'll have to tell me now, otherwise I'm going to assume you're agreeing to this. Understand?'

The cube made no efforts to reply. Well. Onwards and downwards, then.

He took a few, final strokes, drawing them out for the sake of it, before the sight of the cube became too much for his curiosity or his straining erection to resist, glistening and tantalising in the light.

His breathing laboured, he manoeuvred the cube through slippery fingers under his cock, its corners firm points of pressure against his balls as he slid its surface back and forth along the sensitive underside and hissed when it caught just under the head. The smoothness was decadent through the layer of gel, sensational even, but somehow not satisfying enough.

He pulled it away, his groin suddenly aching from the lack of stimulation, but he was over a thousand years old and with a job to do and surely had more self control than that. Panting a little, he fumbled with the tube of lubricant until he emptied some more onto his fingers and eased his body forwards to half-kneel with his arse in the air. This--this had certainly been a while, now. Not so long that he couldn't help start to remember another pair of fingers spreading, stretching him, slowly and arduously and relentlessly…

This sort of thing, clearly, was better left to Jack and his team. Or perhaps not at all. He was possibly harder than he could ever remember being in the last few centuries and convinced he was about to finish by accident by the time he had himself relaxed enough, easily slipping four fingers in and out. Even as he moaned softly into the cushion, he couldn't help wonder if the cube possessed some secret function as a much-needed back massager, straining to reach so far behind himself. A dry-cleaner, too; with no small embarrassment he noticed the strings of his pre-ejaculate dripping onto the sofa. Rassilon and Omega, he had to do this, _now_ , he wasn't going to last a second longer.

Withdrawing his fingers and whining, quietly under his breath, his hips twitched and searched as he took the cube, again, pressing one of its slippery corners to his entrance and slowly pushing it further until, three quarters of the way in, he met resistance.

It was then that he began to have the slightest inkling of what an absolutely idiot idea this really was, but he was a Time Lord. His internal structures were far more resilient than those of most species and he was not about to be defeated by a--a--whatever it was, anyhow--he was adamant that at some point in time of his one thousand two hundred years he'd had worse anyway (but quite pointedly couldn't recall when).

And with that thought, he pressed a little harder, gasping as the stretch went well out of the bounds of pleasure and into a fine line between discomfort and outright pain. Gritting his teeth, he held the cube there, rocking it gently as he tried to relax. It slipped a little further-- _ow_ , that was a decent, honest sting--and his arousal faded considerably, his hearts racing ever so slightly. He took a couple of quick, choked breaths, and with a final, splitting burst of pain the cube slid past its widest point and inexorably drew itself inwards until just the corner teased at the tips of his fingers--

Oh.

... _Oh_. That--that was, well, good, that felt... _oh,_ _gods_ , very good.

The Doctor squirmed a little, easing his hips up ever so gingerly, the slightest movement shifting the whole, massive thing inside him and rubbing one of the cube's corners straight into his prostate. He stayed there, hardly able to breathe around it, rocking his hips just centimetres into the air to feel it grind against him, overwhelming him with pleasure so brutal it could have been pain.

His elbows buckled, all his muscles gone to jelly and unable to hold his weight and he collapsed onto the cushion, face mashing against the upholstery where he almost shouted aloud into it as the movement sent the cube jolting against his prostate again. He moaned into the fabric, another wet patch forming fit to match, sliding his cock between his stomach slick with sweat and his own fluids and the cushion under his hips. Completely lost between the mounting friction and the merciless pressure of the cube from the inside-out, he didn't last long, coming on a strangled breath so intensely his vision darkened.

Working the cube back out was easier, blissful and relaxed from orgasm, and not quite as unsatisfyingly as he had expected, it was completely unchanged. Perhaps, it looked a little happier, he liked to think.

The Doctor hardly cared that the sofa was damp as he collapsed back onto it with a whoosh of air, catching his breath and eyeing the cube from the corner of his eye.

'Well played,' he acknowledged, voice still a little unsteady.

Pulling his trousers back on and cleaning up, he was forced to conclude he was no closer to solving the mystery of the cubes than when he'd started. But, if they suddenly turned hostile, he supposed at least he had some decent blackmail material on this one.

Best of all, now it was almost dinnertime.

 


End file.
